Citadel
by Halfpenny
Summary: That which can be plundered, but never truly obtained. Yaoi, VY. *OLD, archived*


**A/N/Di: **Another unhealthy blurb of listless philosophical ramblings with characters that do not belong to me, though in truth I don't feel the need to apologize either for my lack of a decent update or the fact that I am most likely becoming increasingly offensive to my readers. Reviews are always welcome and never expected; I'm beginning to think that the more I write, the more obscure my name becomes. 

**Warnings:** Yaoi, lime, cursing, and a hint of non-con that does not follow through. As with all my works, read at your own discretion.  

_--_**citadel **

_Beyond this shore lie mighty hinterlands_

_Danger and excitement and delight are there_

_With misty hints of strange, exotic strands_

_Of mountains, forests, fields and marsh and mere._

_But guardian of all this land_

_Stands the cold, forbidding tower _

_Of Independence:_

_Silent and sure and steadfast in its power._

_Prepare for siege…_

                                                _--John Locke_

_--excerpt: aside—_

The first time Vegeta fucked him, he was up against the wall of Capsule Corp's shower facilities with a control knob cutting into his back. The neighboring showerheads were spitting out jets of steam-drenched water and the overhead lights were an aggressive red-orange and Vegeta's mouth was hot against his, stifling the groans even as it wrung them out. Vegeta did not know the art of doing anything by halves; his thrusts were brutal and his fingers mercilessly gouged tracks in any skin that was available, and when Yamcha tried struggling the Saiyajin slammed his head back so hard the tiles cracked. When Bulma later questioned him about the impression he had told her that he had become angry with an uppity bar of soap and had punched the wall in his frustration. She had politely ignored the fact that Capsule Corp had installed soap dispensers some thirty years earlier because bars of soap were tacky and hazardous and had told him to take his temper elsewhere the next time it happened. She had then given him a bottle of painkillers to help with his concussion. 

The second time Vegeta fucked him, he was on his stomach on the battle-scarred floor of the gravity chamber, teeth deep into the skin of his forearm. Vegeta had been no less unforgiving, but that time had allowed Yamcha the luxury of his muffled, reflexive entreaties, _oh god please no Vegeta I can't please don't make me oh god it hurts it hurts. _It had not occurred to Yamcha to fight back, not _really_, until reason had caught up with desire and he had realized that he was _supposed to be fighting back. After they both had come, then, he had thrown in a vague, ceremonial sort of elbow jab, and Vegeta had promptly beaten him unconscious. There could have been a number of possible outcomes of that particular situation, but he had ended up waking up stretched out on the grass outside the chamber nevertheless to find the Saiyajin gone and Bulma patting his cheek, laughing about how they should take it easier training next time, because, goodness, they were going to take the whole of Capsule Corp up with them one day. Yamcha did not tell Bulma then, either, because Bulma was pretty and blue-eyed and did not want to hear about two men groining around in the shower facilities or the gravity chamber, and because he himself, even in the fevered haze of pain and exhaustion, realized that 'fucking' needed to be one-sided in order for it to be called rape._

He sometimes indulges himself, allowing himself to imagine that some of the thrusts are merely domineering instead of impatient, that the glint in Vegeta's eyes is something like lust, and that with every callous word spoken there is a measure of apology within it, as if the true Vegeta is struggling to get out from behind shuttered eyes and tightened lips. But each time he is taken, coolly and without remorse, the chapters of the fairy tale continue to tear themselves away, blood-soaked and sourbittersweet. 

Yamcha does not tell Bulma, who is pretty and blue-eyed and naïve, and who turns her back when he stumbles from the chamber or the gym or the shower room, wan and shadowed, like the pall after twilight.

_(endscene)_

~^~

There were times the Kame house felt more like home than any other place on Chikyuu. Kuririn was notoriously hennish with those he cared about, and if Yamcha didn't invite himself over for dinner at least once every couple of weeks he tracked him down. It was not unfounded: Yamcha's eating habits were poor at best and his periods of depression were frequent and intense, and whenever his ki levels dipped Kuririn invariably showed up at his door, bluntly informing him that if he didn't eat something or come over for dinner _right away, dammit, he would knock him out and drag him over there in a gunny sack. Yamcha seldom argued; he could read the concern in Kuririn's eyes as easily as he could read the irritation, and at those points he rarely had the energy to put up much of a fight anyway._

It was four-forty six on a hot Wednesday afternoon, and when Kuririn burst through the door Yamcha was sprawled listlessly over the couch, the controller to a broken TV perched on his stomach. 

Normally Kuririn was more polite. A former monk, he was fastidious more often than not, usually taking the time to clap his boots against the top step and settle them neatly, side by side, on the right edge of the welcome mat, which he would then pick up so he could beat the dirt off of it. Only after all that would he actually knock, and politely: one-two-three pause, onetwothree _then oi, Yamcha, you there? while Yamcha dragged his ass out of bed or from the kitchen table or wherever he was at the moment._

On that Wednesday not only did Kuririn not clap his boots off or shake out the mat, he did not knock, and when he threw open the door and tumbled into the room he succeeded in looking truly and undeniably pissed. "Yamcha, what the _hell," he said without preamble._

Yamcha's eyes were closed. His fingers flicked, though, sending the controller scooting down his stomach and down over his thighs to come to a halt across his knees. "Here," he mumbled, barely audible. "TV's yours."

Kuririn spared a brief glance toward the gutted appliance before an impatient jab of an elbow sent the door flying shut. Without bothering to remove his shoes, he crossed the room toward the couch. Yamcha didn't move. "Go away."

Ignoring him, Kuririn knelt beside him. The aggravation was apparent across his eyes and his windswept hair, but the grooves on his forehead were those of anxiety. "Something's the matter," he said. 

Yamcha shook his head minutely. The controller slipped down and settled between his kneecaps. "You usually knock."

"Cut the crap," Kuririn said. His tone was deceptively even. "Your ki's been dropping about as fast as a fat horse over a waterfall, did you know that? Oh, wait, of course you did. I keep forgetting that you _like _making me worry by not sleeping or eating. So let me guess, what _was the last time you ate? Monday? Sunday?"_

"Fuck off, Kuririn," Yamcha said wearily. 

"How about the last time you _drank _something? Or slept?"

"Are you still here?"

Kuririn grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him upwards. Reluctant, Yamcha finally opened his eyes. He was mildly surprised to see that all irritation had been replaced with concern. "Yamcha, tell me what's wrong," Kuririn pleaded. "This isn't like you, you're not usually this…"

_Pathetic_. Not meeting his gaze, Yamcha fumbled weakly to try and pry the fingers off his shirt. Kuririn sighed, slowly releasing the fabric and dropping back down onto his heels, running his fingers through his hair. His eyes were shadowed into skin that was suddenly too pale. "I'm going to make you some dinner," he said quietly. "Go ahead and get some more rest in the meantime, okay? We'll talk about this later."

Yamcha nodded once, mutely, and allowed Kuririn to gently push him back down and retreat into the bedroom to find him a blanket. It wasn't a lengthy search: Kuririn knew, from past experience, exactly where it was.

Amid the sizzling of fried potatoes and the rattling of dulled lids on cheap pots and the whistling of the teakettle he could feel Kuririn's eyes on him, dark and unreadable. Though the blanket covered him almost completely, he moved his hand minutely to trace the new scars and bruises littered along his arms, then pulled his sleeve down over them, as if by concealing the marks he could somehow convince the both of them that they had never been there in the first place.

~^~

_—-excerpt: aside—_

The third time Vegeta fucked him, he'd been bent over the bar of a bench press and dry-heaving from a blow to the stomach. The Saiyajin's movements had been a bit slower, and performed not without some measure of amusement; Bulma had been out, Trunks was at the Son's, and all personnel at Capsule Corp had learned to steer clear of any training facilities when Vegeta was in or around them. Yamcha had not resisted, and when Vegeta had forced him to his knees and bared his sex he had taken it soundlessly, imagining that Vegeta wanted to be pleasured by him more than anything else bordering on injurious. In the end the result is more or less the same: Vegeta—surely _Vegeta_—is the one who is insatiable. And, for all his apparent cruelty, is not heartless, and Yamcha knows he cares enough about Bulma to keep his activities hidden from her. 

Yamcha has no desire to hurt him, and, whether it is an action borne of humiliation or forgiveness or something like hope, keeps his silence. Vegeta can, might, could, and will not change; in a morbid sense, he takes comfort in the fact that he is the one Vegeta seeks out to slake his lust and quiet his frustrations, and come the fourth and fifth and sixth times he bites his lip, bright-eyed, and bears it, like an underdog bears the abuse of the bully and a god bears the changing of his world.

_(endscene, ii)_

~^~

Halfway into the month, Goku finally came to visit. 

Yamcha felt his approach long before he actually touched down. Goku shouldered a shadow of sunlight, and feeling him was as easy as counting stars and the hours to daybreak. He did not know what he himself felt like—moonlight, perhaps, or something rough, like the raised hackles of the wolf and the snarl between the pointed canines—but he knew that Goku could feel him no matter where he was in the world, and for that reason he did not try to flee when the Saiyajin descended through the treeline, ruffling the grasses with errant ki. "Hiya," he said. "Mind if I intrude?"

A scrap of eastbound wind blew strands across his nose, and he twitched it absently to rid himself of the irritation. "Yes and no," he said.

"Hm?'

"You're going to anyway, right?"

Goku smiled apologetically, soundlessly settling down onto the ground. "Right," Yamcha said. He kicked out lightly with his heel, sending a dirt clump tumbling into the stream. "Make yourself at home, then."

Goku did, with the ease that was characteristic of only Goku: plopping down, instantly relaxed, hair in wild disarray and a blissful expression on his face. "It's pretty here," he declared. "And quiet. Usually there's birds all over the place, knocking down leaves and making a racket—here, there's just the stream, right? And wind in the grass. Reminds me of a place I used to take Gohan when he was a real little kid. We haven't been back there in a while, come to think of it."

Yamcha remained silent. He wanted to tell him that there _had _been birds there, obnoxious and cheery, and Goku's oafish entrance had served to frighten them away in droves, but there hadn't in fact been a lot of birds and Goku was the same in Gohan in regards to animals: nothing ever felt the need to flee from them. Goku shifted slightly. "You okay?" he asked.

"Sure," Yamcha said. 

"Really?"

"Why not?"

Goku managed a shrug. "Dunno. Just a feeling, I guess."

"Everything's cool," he said. "I mean, that's what you need to hear, right? That's what Kuririn's trying to wring out of me, isn't it?"

"Kuririn didn't send me. _I _sent me. I mean—wait. I just wanted to see how you are."

"Bullshit," Yamcha said, "and a half. Completely."

A squirrel chittered high overhead and scuttled through the clusters of leaves in the canopy, knocking a small twig down onto Goku's stomach. He picked it up, twirling it between unexpectedly deft fingers. "But you're _okay okay, right? I mean, gee, I haven't seen you in forever. I never know."_

"I'm fine, Goku. Fuck." He sat up. Blades of grass stuck to his upper arms; he brushed them off with quick, irritated flicks of his fingers. "I'm sick of people asking me."

Goku laughed. It was surprisingly masculine; a deep-gut amusement from behind a boy's face. "But that's what people do, isn't it? Like, one time I went home and asked Chichi when was dinner, 'cuz I knew she was making it and stuff and I was really excited, and she got all mad at me and said I was being rude by not asking her how she was. So I figured—"

"Lay off." Yamcha's expression held no echoing satisfaction. "A guy's allowed to be depressed every once in a while. It's not like I'm dying or anything."

"I know."

"Good. I get tired of explaining it."

"I can smell him on you." 

Yamcha glanced at him. Goku's gaze was fixed on the sky in the breaks of the canopy, languidly tracing the lines of the clouds. The small smile on his face made an uneasy contrast with the gravity of his words. "Clearly," he said. "I'd recognize it anywhere. It hasn't changed one bit. He probably told you I'd be able to sense it."

Yamcha's jaw tightened. He looked away, fingering a grass stain across the knee of his jeans. "I'm not going to interfere, 'cuz it's none of my business," Goku said. "But… Yamcha, there's gotta be a point where—"

"You _would know, Goku," he interrupted. When Goku's expression betrayed something like confusion he added, a little lower, "Don't think I don't know what you did. What you do. It's obvious. I'm not stupid. I…"_

Goku's eyes suddenly narrowed with expectation. A shiver crawled up Yamcha's arms and stayed there, prickling the skin. He rushed forward on a stubborn surge of anger. "Have you told Chichi about it? How about Gohan? It's not my name he shouts when he shoots, Goku, did you know that? Do you go to him, or does he come to you?"

Goku didn't say anything for a long moment. Then, suddenly, he gracefully rolled to his feet: honey and corded muscle. Yamcha watched him as he ascended, feeling a sudden, intense rush of envy. "It's just like that for you, huh?" he said bitterly. "You can get up and walk away whenever you want. I bet it's not him shoving you up into walls and dislocating your shoulder and making it a point to send you out of the room concussed whenever possible. At least you want it."

Goku turned. Yamcha opened his mouth to say more and found that the bulk of his sentence had collapsed into ash. In the stillness Goku faced him completely, head tilted slightly to the side. "He's not cruel, Yamcha," he said. "I mean, he's a prick, sure, but he's not cruel. If he's doing it, it's because you've left yourself open. He wouldn't do it otherwise. He's got his honor."

What was left of his pride rekindled and burned. "Fuck that shit," he hissed. His hands clenched into fists. "_Fuck _that shit. The hell are you to tell me—"

"And if he was forcing himself on you, then you'd come to me, and I'd take care of it."

"I don't _need your help!"_

The smile stayed in place. Yamcha knew better than to believe it was a mask; Goku had proven, time and time again, that his observation of the world at large was the same as it always had been: light, and from a distance. "But," Goku said softly, "you want _something_, right? Or you wouldn't keep going back. You want it, don't you? You have to want it."

He wanted to continue to feel fury; wanted the blood that was thundering past his ears to be driven by hatred instead of something more akin to arousal. Goku's mild voice was just that; gentle and curious, like a small child inquiring about the taste of their lemonade and the date of their next picnic. Another shudder worked its way past Yamcha's arms and lingered unpleasantly in his stomach. "Go away," he whispered. "Kami. Just go away."

"Awright. But—"

"Go away."

And Goku left, dragging his shadow over the ruffled grass as a hand did against the grain of a cat's fur. Yamcha watched him go, mouth twisting, despising the fear that drew ice across his palms and the surge of desire that paled the shadow to sun. 

~^~

_—excerpt: aside, finale—_

He picks at his past the way a small child picks at a scab; deliberately, and with a morbid satisfaction in seeing the injury bleed afresh. He has no memories from before he turned six, and no future to speak of in the time afterwards. 

When Vegeta snatches his elbow and pushes him against the wall he is almost gentle, his fingers straying to the buttons and his lips a force just short of bruising. He wastes no time with caresses or subtlety. His voice is a growl, his skin a soursweet clash of sweat and traces of old blood, his motions smooth and practiced and precise: a craftsman with a warrior's touch. Yamcha can hear Bulma's off-key lullabies through the wall, contrasting gingerly with creak of the cradle, and can feel the thrusts change accordingly, bringing the slow, dulcet torture into something more ephemeral and surreal. 

He feels little remorse when Kuririn finally snaps and slams him against the closed door of his bedroom, yelling what the hell was the matter with him, what use was _anyone if he wouldn't allow them to help, he was fading, he was dying, and then no guilt when Bulma walks through the kitchen and says she is so _glad _that he and Vegeta had stopped fighting, and no regret when he looks into Trunks' face and sees the evidence of royal blood instead of a bandit's. It is through careful effort—first Vegeta's, and then his own—that enables him to weather his own emotions like a citadel does a storm and a mountain does the passing of time. _

When he comes he holds his breath—and in a dozen half-moments sees the rim of the worlds, and the spring and fall of the stars; the sensations of whitewash and fatigue and something not quite close enough to grief to be called regret.

When he closes his eyes he can _reach_—and in the burgeoning twilight can sense reason and time raveling into something more tangible, like the slippery grasp of the sheets and the way Vegeta's body arches with something like pleasure, something like pain. 

When he comes back down again he can touch—and in the moody half-daylight can see the faint lines of discontent deepen with every pained hiss, and the slight, inexplicable faltering of pace whenever his consciousness waned; Vegeta neither offers nor takes apology, though as the months toward eternity dwindle the guidance grows less irritable and the effrontery of the battle-rough fingertips along salt-drenched skin grows increasingly half-hearted.

And when he stumbles he no longer falls; as if by being caught he can forget the reason he had ever began his descent.

_(fin 2/3/2k3, 3:01 a.m)_


End file.
